Once a proud London family home, now a squat for all and sundry.
A solitary ray of light fights its way through the boarded-up windows.
Tiny flecks of floating dust flicker as they pass through the beam,
Disappearing as quickly as they came to life.
The call came from a mobile.
Gave an address, "I think she's dead!" the only scream,
before cutting off the call and turning off the phone.
We arrive, police and ambulance, and all step tentatively into the house.
Not a sound, not a soul, no response to our calls.
Glass breaks underfoot, floorboards creak,
needles shimmer in the torchlight.
Two flights of stairs, rooms on every floor,
each deserted,
dark,
cold,
unloved.
In the furthest room, in the darkest part of the house,
surrounded by filth, and blood, and human waste, we find her.
Curled up in a corner.Deserted.
Dark.
Cold.
Unloved.
And matching exactly the caller's description.
2 comments:
Poor girl; what an end. Drugs? Must have been awful searching - ticking off each room, nothing there which is a) good and b) bad 'cos the horror could still be round the corner.
Strong work.
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